


Scarlet and Ivory

by usefulobject



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Dom/sub, Fantasizing, Interrogation, Other, Scarlet Crusade, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 22:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usefulobject/pseuds/usefulobject
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vishas fantasizes that deep down, those damned Forsaken really like what he does.  You don't get to be Scarlet Interrogator by not being creepy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet and Ivory

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Kink Bingo 2013, for the prompt "torture/interrogation".
> 
> I haven't actually played the game since shortly after Cataclysm came out. If all this is now at the bottom of the sea or something, sorry.

Vishas strode across the monastery courtyard as gracefully as he could with his cramped back and dust-dry throat. The light stung his eyes after so much time in his workroom, and even while he mentally repeated his personal aphorism that all pain served a higher purpose, he prayed for cloudy skies next time he had to do this. He barely avoided stepping on one of the tame rabbits that he assumed Locksley kept around as some kind of sick joke, what with those damned dogs around. Vishas was starting to wish he was in its place and could hop into the jaws of oblivion, blissfully ignorant. 

He wiped the sweat off his hands and attempted to look somewhat presentable before disappointing High Inquisitor Whitemane and her pet paladin, who had insisted on an audience with him after going several weeks without any new information on undead activity in the area.

The problem was that lately they were hard-pressed to find any wandering corpses besides the mindless Scourge. It seemed the remaining Forsaken were far less braindead than they'd originally assumed. All the Scarlet initiates recently dispatched to get a better look at their fortress-city in the ruins of Lordaeron were never heard from again. The "Oh, we're just _too_ good at our jobs, that's why we're capturing and slaying fewer of them" bit had worn out its welcome.

It was too bad, really. He couldn't care less about the grunts, but he missed the presence of the Forsaken, in a way. Their long, slender bones peeking out of their skin, highlighted by the soft glow of their eyes in the shadows of the forest. That pallid skin, so smooth and cold, like a drink of fresh water on a hot day…

If only he was lucky enough to stumble upon another treasure like that one last autumn, the so-called fisherman who had no doubt been poisoning the lake. He'd squirmed and he'd shivered, but he never confessed, and his flesh responded to Vishas's attention in a most unseemly manner. Clearly, one so enamored of torment and peril to the point he acted as if he was married to it had to be full of disgusting secrets and shocking tales waiting to be pried from his flesh. Sadly, a small band of the wretch's friends had stormed the outpost in the middle of the night and spirited him back to the undeserved safety of whichever cursed village he'd wandered too far from.

He'd find another someday, he knew, for this was merely a brief lull in the middle of a storm. The Forsaken's depravity knew no limits and their numbers grew with every corpse that hit the ground. He'd be waiting patiently on a cool moonlit evening, there in his workroom next to what may have been the only safe graveyard left in the world. The guards would march in dragging the monster in shackles, and for once be smart enough to leave Vishas to his job instead of wasting his time with idle chatter and insufferable jokes. The undead would be taunted with a taste of freedom for a brief, bittersweet moment before Vishas put him on the rack, once again securing those thin, bony wrists and ankles, already bruised and battered before the creature was even caught.

And then the Forsaken would look up at him with those eyes, like some warped mockery of fireflies, and they'd flash a little brighter with every strike and sting and stretch. He'd moan, the long, low sound oozing from his broken throat, and his jaw would snap open and get stuck there, revealing his huge, glistening tongue.

Vishas would take his smallest knife and cut the creature's shirt away, painstaking, inch by inch. The undead man's chest would be lean but yielding to the touch, and little pieces of his milky-white ribs would peek out the sides. His moss-green nipples would be hard and bruised - no, wait, even better, they'd have spiked piercings driven through them - and the cold, taut skin of his belly would tremble under the shadow of Vishas's pliers and prods hovering over it. "Keep going," the Forsaken would hiss. "We've only just begun."

His body would write with unholy lust, the ivory frame holding it all together threatening to burst through his delicate grey skin at any moment. The rack and the whip would coax out stories of all the indignities he and his reanimated brethren would inflict on humans, with no detail spared. And beyond that, reports of their twisted parody of everyday life in their hellish underground city, what offal they ate, what cruel games they played, what unthinkable indecency went on in the dirty coffins that served as their beds. "Come closer," the Forsaken would say, his breath heavy and damp like churchyard fog. Vishas would lean in until the creature's tongue writhed up and touched his face, slick and muscled and twisting, relishing the taste of unspoiled human skin. "I still have so much to tell you…"

Vishas snapped back to attention at the sound of the heavy doors of the cathedral's inner chamber swinging open, and tried to look as dignified as possible.

"Your Eminence." He bowed. 

"You kept us waiting," said Whitemane, gazing down from her throne. "I hope you have something worth it. You wouldn't want High General Abbendis to find out about all that unauthorized overtime, after all." She began tapping her staff against the palm of her hand in a disconcerting way, while Mograine crossed his arms.

"Of course, of course," said Vishas. He'd have to improvise, but their enemies never failed to provide fuel for his imagination. As he took a deep breath and wracked his brain for a good beginning to his report, he silently thanked the gods the Forsaken were such filthy perverts.


End file.
